


Point Blank

by morecivilizedage



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Disturbing Themes, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morecivilizedage/pseuds/morecivilizedage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rex is fine.  He has been through hell, but he's fine.  He's functioning, he's taking care of himself.   He's got it all under control.</p><p>After the clusterfuck that was the Umbara campaign, the 501st Legion—accompanied by the 212th Attack Battalion—have been temporarily stationed on Cosruscant to assist the Coruscant Guard in their duties—a deployment meant to serve as an unofficial 'down-time' for both units to rest and recover from their experiences under the manipulation of Fallen Jedi Pong Krell.  Captain Rex is just trying to hold himself together while watching out for his men, especially with the increasing frequency of his sleep-walking excursions and the violence of the nightmares that accompany them.</p><p>But even Coruscant has its share of dangers, and as murder after murder of brothers is discovered, Rex has to start asking himself some hard questions about what he's doing when his conscious mind <i>isn't</i> in control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point Blank

**Author's Note:**

  * For [norcumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](http://sauntering-down.tumblr.com/post/125884526298/while-im-at-it) terrible, lovely bit of meta by [sauntering_down](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sauntering_down) on tumblr that exploded into a shit-storm of a ficspawn for a quasi-psychological murder-mystery. Rating and Warnings variable, and liable to go up as the story progresses.
> 
> THIS FIC IS NOT SUNSHINE AND RAINBOWS.  
> There WILL be murder, disturbing imagery—especially involving that of dead bodies, various portrayals of PTSD, lots of Umbara references and flashbacks, and general mind-fuckery. I will be warning for everything in the notes at the beginning of each chapter, so please mind them, but as a general rule, at _least_ one of the above-listed things will be present in each chapter.
> 
> Beta'd by [norcumi](http://norcumi.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He got this, he got this.
> 
> Rex don't got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Semi-graphic depictions of corpses, acute stress reaction, disturbing imagery in the form of trauma-induced nightmares, PTSD and the refusal to seek medical help.

It is night, the bioluminescent flora casting everything in a hazy blue glow. He hates this plan, has always hated it, marching forward with no clue of what awaits them, straight in orderly rows—easy pickings. Rex turns around to check the status of his men. It isn't Torrent. It isn't even the rest of the 501st. Only row upon row of empty shells of armor, shiny and new, luminous in the blue glow where they lay, discarded on the ground He turns around again, but it isn't that hellhole of a canyon. He's in the middle of all the crossfire, shouting at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse and yet he makes no sound, ripping off his helmet and falling to his knees He's on his knees and he draws Waxer's head into his lap, as Waxer's helmet falls, rolling away. It's not Waxer's helmet, it's Dogma's, Dogma's face shouting in denial and anger. Rex stands, turning away and all around him is Krell's laughter, loud and cruel and echoing. He reaches out to grab his own helmet, but it's not his—it's Hardcase's helmet, and his head drops out and bounces away to settle, nestled between two supply crates, eyes empty and dead, dead, dead. Rex can make out his own reflection in the dull sheen of his irises. It's his face but it isn't, twisted into a sneer and as Rex looks away he finds himself surrounded again by that empty, empty armor, assembling with a clatter and the echoes of brother's laughter and screams and cries until the cacophony of noise drowns everything else out. The empty armor begins to surround him with slow, measured, regimented steps, still glowing in the eerie, eerie blue. The soldier-ghosts present their arms, then bring them to aim. Rex stumbles back and brings his hands up, blaster pistols at the ready, and fires, fires, fires. Faster and faster, and each shell pauses when hit but steadily, steadily they grow faster, closing in. He can't let himself panic, he can't, even as he fumbles and drops his left blaster pistol to the ground, so he steadies his remaining, shaking hand and fires and fires and fires. The sound of his blasterfire merges with the slowly rising sound of bombardment in the background, hissing fire and the loud booms of ion canons, gaining in pitch higher and higher until all he can hear is a high whine that turns to the chiming of his emergency wrist comm—

And Rex jolted awake, gasping and hands up as if to aim his blaster pistols again, but he finds them empty. The fluorescent light of the neon signs from Coruscant's lower districts, seedy and bright, blinded his eyes with their vibrant colors. It was an unfeeling, uncaring crowd that jostled against him, sending him blinking and stumbling as he tried to break away from the overwhelming stimulation. Finally he managed to shove a path to the empty mouth of a back alley. Rex fell against the cracked duracrete wall in relief, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath to try and recenter himself. Stable once again, he took a moment to take stock of his current state. He was barefoot, down to nothing but his black bodysuit and utility-belt holster. His wrist-comm was active and beeping, still chiming out with an emergency alert.

Rex stepped further into the alleyway to answer, away from the crowds. The giant neon billboard of the 'dance club' to the left emitted a dull, red light that spilled into the cramped space between the buildings. Rex could hear the hiss of vented steam that condensed against the exposed pipelines, the drops plinking a rat-a-tat-tat against the thin metal. He shook his head to rid his ears of the echo of ringing and activated the comm. Cody sprang up in full body hologram, but even on the small model, Rex could see the familiar worry lines creasing his face.

“Where the _hell_ are you, Rex!” Cody's voice and image crackled occasionally with the poor reception. Still, when the reception was good, Rex could see the commander was shaking with his fury. “A brother from the 375 th has been reported missing, suit tracker disabled. Security tapes last caught him leaving the compound at twenty-three-hundred an–” the hologram fizzled. Rex raised his arm, stepping further still towards the back of the alley “–o one has the slightest clue where he is because his locator has been disrupted. They've launched a fucking manhunt trying to find him. Medical says his vitals just cut out twenty minutes ago.” Rex felt something hard and cool against his exposed toes. He looked down.

His foot was brushing against the white duraplast of a brother's helmet. Rex fumbled at his utility belt with his free hand until he found a small flashlight, then shone it into the alleyway, trying to better-resolve the menacing shapes in the red-tinted shadows. 

It took all his training not to stumble backwards out of the alleyway. He swallowed and cut the flashlight, letting the red of the billboard stand as the alley's only light. 

“Rex! Wh–”

“Cody,” Rex cut him off. There was a lump resting high in his throat, making it hard to speak, “I think I found him.” Now that he knew where it was, Rex found it much easier to make out the dead clone. The red billboard overhead flickered brighter, making it clearer still. Empty eyes stared up at the sky, a neat, precise blaster-hole straight through the left side of the dead clone's breastplate.

* * *

**TWO WEEKS AGO:**

For something as simple as a basic Senate security detail, this day had been far too long. Rex took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, running his free hand over his hair. Still, even the long day could not explain the exhaustion that had settled into his limbs, or the bags under his eyes. As Rex made his way towards sleeping quarters, he knew he would eventually have to face truth. He was getting worse.

It wasn't just the nightmares: every brother had 'em. Those nightmares were all the same–looking down your rifle sights to aim at your Jedi. A series of steadily repeating motions, not in control, simply forced to watch in horror as it unfolded around around you, until someone in your dream-space was merciful enough to shoot you and wake you up. Rex couldn't even recall when he'd first started getting those nightmares, but he'd been sleepwalking almost as long.

The sleepwalking had never been an issue, either. That was harmless, for the most part: Rex usually went about double-checking his gear and re-stocking his kit. He'd test his armor seals, perform maintenance. One time, he set to jogging laps around the compound in nothing but his sleep pants, his shirt slung around his shoulders like a towel. The 501st had just assigned it as another quirk of their commander, and someone always had a collection of holos to pull out and laugh over on break. Cody had grumbled the first handful of times sleeping-Rex's wanderlust had roused him from his well-earned rest, but after those few times, Cody would just roll over, absently snagging the hem of Rex's nightshirt with a hand and murmur soothing noises until he drew Rex back into bed.

The nightmares and sleep-walking always came paired together, in cycles. When they had started, it had been a nightmare and a walk-about once every couple of weeks at most. A minor inconvenience, but not one that couldn't be handled.

After Umbara, the cycles came every two days.

The dreams changed. Rex stopped facing his Jedi, now he faced his brothers. These dreams were an overwhelming cacophony of image and sensation, but twisted fragments of his memories of Umbara served as a constant. The crackle-burst boom of munitions. Dogma yelling, Waxer dying in his arms. The screech of the mechanical horrors deployed against them. His hands going to holstered blasters over and over again, shooting down everything in sight, even brothers.

Brothers falling to the ground, buckets detaching and rolling away until there is a sea of dead eyes and empty helms, staring up at him, accusing, as names fall from his lips. Sometimes it is the 212th, sometimes it is the 501st, and sometimes shinies whose names he doesn't know, falling limply to the ground. New armor, unmarked save for the holes his blaster makes, fired directly at close range. Empty armor like loose shells, men groaning as they die, glowing scavengers feeding on carcasses.

“Why?” they ask him, with silent gazes and unmoving lips, but he never answers, only keeps shooting. He shoots and shoots until he blinks and finds he has shot himself, and Krell laughs and laughs and laughs, laughter echoing all around him.

Finally he would wake, jerk to awareness into whatever task occupied his hands.

The first time after Umbara, Rex woke up with one of his blaster pistols half-assembled in his hands. The next he'd smelled of ordinance, and there had been solvent and lubricant grease caught under his nails. Each time after he'd only been farther along. Last cycle he had almost finished one, assembly completed minus a plasma charge pack. He had yet to wake up truly armed and loaded, but Rex knew it would only be a matter of time.

The 501st with the 212th attached were deployed together back to Coruscant—nominally for extra help for the Coruscant Guard's security detail, in actuality for a light duty that would give them time to heal, and the opportunity for a team of mind healers to peek into their heads to make sure they wouldn't break under the strain. Rex was pitifully grateful for it; Cody's presence served as a Force-blessed gift. With Cody he could _sleep_ , assured that—at the very least—his nightmares stayed confined to their shared bunk, and damn the regulations they broke.

The soft golden glow of the natural-light desk lamp Cody left running in their quarters was calming, and served as a perfect focus point for Rex to center himself on when needed. It had been a 'souvenir' gift from General Kenobi, meant to mimic the unique colors of the sunset of some planet or another. The General had meant it as a gag: Cody liked geometry, and the bulbous shape of the lamp's base was hideous, by the most generous standards. Still, the moment he'd received it, Cody had granted it a place of honor in his quarters, raising an unflagging eyebrow at any brother who dared to snigger or attempted to comment. It became, inexorably, tied to Rex's sense of _home_ , and its constant, lit presence reinforced that he was, indeed, safe. 

But it still wasn't enough, and both Rex and Cody knew it.

When Rex reached their quarters, Cody was sitting on the bed, arms crossed and face set.

“We need to talk.” Rex ran a hand over his hair again and set his helmet down on the dresser top. He scrubbed at his face before meeting Cody's eyes.

“Then talk.”

“You need to see someone, Rex. A mind-healer, ideally, but at this point, I'll even take Kix. Some sort of medical professional.”

Rex shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. Cody's expression remained unmoved.

“I'm dealing. No need to waste their time.”

“Rex–” Cody uncrossed his arms to grip Rex's shoulder, meeting Rex square in the eye. “You look like shit. You are exhausted: I know you are and _you_ know you are. You need to be able to sleep.”

“Look, Cody, after this is all done I'll go and–”

“Rex,” Cody's voice was soft, painfully quiet. Rex immediately shut his mouth. “You're getting harder to wake. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to wake you up.”

* * *

**NOW:**

It took Cody another twenty minutes to get down to Rex's location, triangulating a rough location off the wrist-comm's weak locator signal and following Rex's halting instructions. Rex waited, deliberately keeping his breathing even, as he stayed just inside the alleyway. He kept looking back towards the brother, but he couldn't rest his eyes on the body for long. He shifted from foot to foot nervously, and when Cody's concerned, broad stride cut through the thong of people, Rex left the alleyway and met him part-way, drawing the Commander into a tight embrace.

Cody halted in surprise, before lifting a hand to guide Rex's head down at the softer junction between his chest-plate and neck, his other arm curling around him protectively. They stood still a moment, Rex taking a shuddering breath before straightening again, composure regained.

“CSF will be here in five,” Cody stated. “You said you found him?” Rex nodded.

“Over here.” Rex led the way back into the alley, stepping aside to allow Cody with his helmet headlight to shine in on the alley. The pauldrons and stripes of Cody's armor took on a golden tinge and Rex found himself breathing easier as Cody shifted to block his view, and immediately felt weak for doing so. Cody knelt, reaching out for the dead clone's wrist and scanning his ident chip.

“This is our missing man.” Cody turned the wrist over, gently, careful to place it back as it had originally lain. Forensics likely wouldn't find anything helpful, not in this corner of Coruscant's underbelly—too much outside contamination—but precautions couldn't hurt. Rex glanced back deeper into the alleyway one last time then looked away. Cody stood and moved back, grasping Rex by the shoulder and guiding both of them out of the alleyway. They stood at the entrance, waving away the few curious gawkers as they waited for Coruscant Security Forces to arrive.

A team arrived shortly, and began to cordon off the area, redirecting traffic and generally filling beings with the sudden need to get scarce. Cody met up with the officer in charge, and after exchanging a few quick words, the officer stepped past them both and waved the team to head into the alley to begin their work on the body. Cody led Rex to the side, away from the sudden bustle, and settling him down on a bench. Whatever preliminary tests they ran hadn't taken long: in only a few minutes the team moved to shift the body onto a stretcher and carried it out of the alleyway, loading it onto the CSF speeder for further analysis. Rex sat and watched as the whole ordeal evolved, feeling strangely numb, before he finally looked away. Cody squeezed his hand, and Rex realized he'd begun to shake.

The head CSF officer whistled and waved Cody over. With a quick reassuring nod to Rex, Cody strode over to talk briefly with the officer. Rex could hear as the officer's voice began to rise in protest to what Cody was saying, before Cody cut the officer off with a few sharp words and a look. Cody then raised a hand, placating. The officer seemed to back down and nodded along to whatever Cody said as they both moved to walk towards the CSF speeder. Eventually they both saluted: the officer boarded the speeder and took off while Cody returned back to Rex, now with a blanket in hand.

“I gave him a copy of our comm exchange. You'll have to submit a report to CSF in the morning, but you're off for the rest of the night.” Cody held the blanket out to Rex as an offering that Rex accepted gratefully and slid across his shoulders in the shape of a modified poncho. “Come on, Rex. Let's go home.” Cody offered him a hand up. Rex took it and stood slowly. The words rushed out of Rex's mouth before they could stop them.

“What'd they think happened?”

“The medical examiner says it looked simple enough: a blaster shot, probably relatively close-range—likely a pistol—but larger caliber.” The words made Rex pause, and he began to pat himself lightly, drawing his hands slowly down towards his holsters while Cody continued to talk. “Either military grade or a modified knock off– Rex?” Rex's face had turned ashen. His hands rested at his hips, one hand against the grip of his blaster pistol, the other patting against the empty holster brushing at his left thigh.

“It's missing. My blaster pistol.” Rex's voice was hushed, growing quieter as he grew paler. “The one that– In my dream, I dropped it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here begins one of the most intensely frustrating fics I've ever worked on, with stupidly large amounts of notes and a lot of exploration into a genre I am not super familiar with.
> 
> Also Norcumi is a saint. The end.


End file.
